. . . it's complicated . . .

Poetry

out on these shifting sandbanks – gulls cry out
where heaven and horizon blur – stretching necks
land is a distant friend my friend – vomit voices
and you a distant cloud formation – white, grey, guano
I part the sky with my hands – sun glinting in eyes
haul you through the troposphere – pecking pecking
amazing that I once was – flecks of spittle rain
beautiful as you no doubt still are – feather floating
but my feet have been sinking since – cacophony
and the tides come and go and rise – it all mixes
mouth above the water just – shifting sandbanks
crying out like a gull crying out – a blurring cataract
choking voice salt vomiting – a distant and lost friend
see the glint in my drowning eyes – see the sky parting
we pecked at each other – you dropping from above
raining down on me like sea spit – at once amazing
you a feather floating through my days – beautiful
white noise and static fuzz – sinking filling the void
it all mixes up as the tides come and go – and rise

I am not an ecumenical beast, she told me
Jesus, I had never heard that one before
She was wheezing as she climbed the stairs
Shredding paper, forgot she was allergic to the dust
Paper dust? Old bills, dwindling congregation
Too expensive to keep open, running costs etc
I don’t like the thought of sharing another chapel
There’s a reason we went separate ways you know
No I didn’t know.

I was helping her clear the house
Her family’s terrace house on the side of the hill
Typical Welsh house, love spoons in the hallway
Brass trinkets and gaudy lustre ware on the dresser
Her husband’s porn videos hidden in the shed
Teen Arse Action and Home for the Holidays
Tapes mouldy with Llanelli damp and rat piss
I’d binned them before she could find them
To save her from any faith based embarrassment
She’d told me how he’d made wooden things
On his lathe, in that shed

for the Eisteddfod in ’76
The heatwave year in which we all had melted
Must’ve been pretty steamy in that shed, I thought
Turning shafts of wood into phallus shaped leeks
The dirty bugger, the lives we leave concealed eh
Tosser should’ve had a clear out before he died
I tripped over a pile of his LP’s leant like slates
Against the side of the shit brown shiny wardrobe
Max Boyce Live at Treorchy Rugby Club 1974
Land of My fathers by the Morriston Orpheus
Male Voice Choir.

My God, what dross
Would you like a cup of tea dear, she called out
I’m alright ta, I shouted back, eagerly rummaging
In the wardrobe, a bundle of Woodworker mags
Tied up with string with some Spick and Spans
And a single photo of a busty blond with bouffant
Leaning on the railings of the bus station
The words To my Darling Vaughn, June ’72
Scribbled on the back in pencil
I slipped it in my pocket and ran down the stairs
Calling see you later as I opened the front door
Are you going dear?

But we haven’t made love yet
I disappeared down the street . . .

. . . why did you have to come to me that way?
shapeshifting into my dreams as someone else
someone that made me run away from you
out the door and down the street instead of
well, you know what we could’ve done
but it never seems to end that way does it?

what was it
that I was chasing
way back when
I rode my dreams
by sea and Downs
and river paths
and later
holding onto
aquamarine railings
a hungover sun
squinting on the horizon
gulls prospecting
the promenade
for breakfast
before the tramps
rose from their slumbers
like preserved timbers
exposed at low tides
I wanted
what they wanted
a dream of something
out of reach
soaked in sun
and Special Brew
the shingle on the beach
made us stagger
drunk on love
and laughter
but love is a lie
you said
but I wouldn’t believe that
I kept on chasing
chasing . . .
chasing . . .

it's all still there
said the voice from out of nowhere -
a shadow of an echo that barely stirred
the settled down dust coating every blurred surface
that ever dared to hold a candle
to the faceless figurines lined up for show
in the hallowed cabinet
look in the drawers
or in the wardrobe with the inlaid doors
stored moth-eaten clothes all hung in rows
there are clues in the cobwebbed attic too
where the woodworm obligingly crumble
the very structure of this artifice
that we call life
it's all still there
said the voice from out of nowhere -
words barely legible just as time is an illusion
canvasses daubed by the would be masters
songs existing as nothing more than whispers
only waiting to be discovered
praised and lauded

the plot invariably led him into scenarios
he would not normally have chosen to encounter
for which he blamed the author for his misfortunes
and called him capricious and irresponsible
why the fuck make him do things for the sake of a story
when it's not even his story and shouldn't it have been obvious
that his character would have acted differently?
writers are all the fucking same he accused
they think they know what the hell goes on inside
a character's head but no, not often, instead they create
and formulate and manipulate something manifestly fictional
that in reality becomes their inner demons projected
as someone else's ill judged mishaps and misdemeanours
don't hang that on me said the man trapped between the pages
give me an atlas and open it wide
I'll pick my own route from here on in
your stormy weather is not on my agenda
no twists and turns will torment me
it's time this man learnt to be free
I'll stick to my guns like Matisse's brush
close the book now, if you please . . .

no more sticks and walking frames
no hands to pull you from your seat
you’re free to go now

free to go
wherever you roam
wherever that is
let’s call it home

no pills and creams and joints aflame
no dark depressions to defeat
you’re free to go now

I never made it
to your side
you’ll never know
how much I cried

no need to ever feel ashamed
no gadgets to help your heart go beat
you’re free to go now

free to go
yes, free to go
you’re free to go now
free to go

xx

(Mum passed away this morning
her condition deteriorated very quickly
she slipped into unconsciousness
died peacefully with a nurse by her side
in the end I couldn’t be there in person
but in every other way I hope I was there
please give her a wave now she’s free to go)

put the face mask on, he said
through his own face mask, nowturn around and fold your armsshe did what she was told

he slipped a single duvet cover over her head
pulled it down over her shoulders, just how
we got into this mess, she felt alarmed
panicked a little and muttered, I feel so old

hang on a mo while I do the samehe struggled with his double duvet cover until
they stood like two big spuds in flowery sacks
and only then did he move much closer

wrapping his duvet clad arms around her tired frameremember when we used to stand up on the hill?we were a right pair of Swansea Jacks!me in my loafers and secondhand motor

we watched the sunset every night, she saidand everything seemed alright back then somehowshe wiggled her bum reminding him of her charms
he giggled, now you’re making me feel bold

they held each other like newlyweds
till death do us part was what they’d vowedwe must look like we’ve escaped from the funny farm!or two giant spliffs, stuffed and rolled!

I love you Diane . . . our love is an eternal flame
I love you too Bob . . . and I promise I always willhe lifted the duvet from Diane and stepped back
at 2 metres he did the same, regaining his composure

I’ll put them in the wash, he proclaimed
she replied, this quarantine business gives me the chillsyeah I’m desperate for a drive with you in the Zodiacsame time tomorrow you old duvet lover . . . ?

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